Lonely Ghosts
by Oldwickedsongs
Summary: A character study of the hunter and watcher: in which we find triumphs are never without reminders, and just because someone is gone doesn't mean they're erased. Cross posted to livejournal. Concrit appreciated.


**Disclaimer:** "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

**Lonely Ghosts  
Lady Erised**

They've been stuck on the tarmac for forty-five minutes, waiting for takeoff and no one speaks- no one really knows what to say. The details of the case are in that place between stark recollection and the damning aftereffect of forgetting. None of them mean to dismiss them out of hand so easily but it becomes a necessity, as much a tool for survival as sleep and food. They have faced the dragon, slain it and now, a return to the castle. A victory cheer. A moment to bury the dead, and the knowledge that one day there might be stories about this.

Normally, this was always the best part for Rossi. He lived for the thrill of the hunt, for the moment when you returned with the hide, or head. He loved the flourish of the victory, like the old Roman triumphs; the moments when struggles were vindicated, rewarded and the wrongs of some small place, in some small way were righted.

And it was moments like this, when the victories weren't as clear as they could be, and the dark was a little less defined that shook him. The case had been neither overly unique nor particularly dreadful when set against others; and the unsub was no one of importance and statue either in his community or in the annals of criminal psychology. Perhaps that was what had frightened him; the fact that four bodies later, Rossi had almost been bored by the monotony of it all. He'd felt his armor harden a little on this case; felt the greaves rust over and it had frightened him. It was his own slave in his ear, whispering, whispering truths he didn't quite want to hear.

The hum of the plane's engines suddenly filled the cabin with a low foretelling hum and without ceremony the team began to go about the motions of take off; buckling seats and closing laptops, never once drawing attention to the routine and all without thought because this was familiar to them. It was as second nature as the gun holster on their side and buds in their ear. They're all a little tired and bored…

He finds his phone and scrolls through the numbers until he finds the entry with the name he erased but couldn't quite bring himself to delete entirely. For a moment with his mind still in antiquity he's reminded of one of the boy wonder's odd stories: how it was in Egypt with unpopular pharaohs and traitors. The offending party had their names erased, and images chipped away from sepulture and temple as if banishment could somehow remedy what had been done; could dismiss the pain that followed, or appease the hate. It's a stray thought that only toys with the edges of his reasoning. Part of him knows that when this man left, he willing took that contempt with him. The rational part of his mind tells him that this person wanted to be gone; and since he did- he would have had the number disconnected long ago.

But Rossi sends the text anyways and then, in a bit of stubbornness, shuts the phone off because he doesn't want to see the error message the company will send if the line has gone dead.

During the flight, he dreams of girls with scratched off faces, buried alive in catacombs and all the while as he walks away, he hears the voice in his ear whispering, whispering. When he wakes up with a start, he's sweating and his fingertips hurt from clawing. He's last off the plane and at the base of the stairs, Hotch offers a ride home. He has to be careful in how he declines, and the excuses he offers.

They are all like that; part hive and part battalion; if one is hurting the others sense it and somehow begin a careful toeing of the line between understanding and respect of distance. Tonight, Hotch lets him off, or maybe he senses something else at play.

The bar is tucked into a corner of Quantico, VA people forget about. He can't remember if Max Ryan had been the first one who found it- or was it him during those many nights of battles with his ex-wife. It's not legal but no one in there seems to really care. It's the sort of place where you bring your own alcohol when you don't want to drink alone. It's invisible to anyone who doesn't know the place, who can't feel the ache of the marrow. Those who take up seats seem to have aged with the place itself. They're shadows. Scratched off images.

Gideon hasn't changed much since last he saw him; not in any real way. The jeans are torn and shiny with age and want of care, the shirt is from a baseball team Rossi is certain he never played on, and the coat is threadbare, providing neither warmth nor disguise. None of the clothes are Gideon's. He wondered where he got them. There's a beard this time too, more gray than brown that adds age and something feral to the entire picture. Or tries too.

As Rossi approached Gideon pushes both hands flat on the table before him as if to show he wasn't carrying anything. His hands are rough, torn from some form of manual labor Rossi can't quite pick out in this light. There's paint under the chipped fingernails. But when he looks up, and finds Rossi's eyes he doesn't smile and he hasn't changed.

Most people who meet Jason Gideon for the first time comment on his eyes. He was said to either have the stare survivors of great tragedy possessed; a starkness that came from seeing too much, or too little sympathy. Or they said his eyes were black and deadened, like those of the criminals they hunted and their cold victims. He was exposed by his eyes.

Dave always thought of Emma when he saw Gideon. There was something completely unguarded about them; something that was innocent in ways society never believed was actual. He'd seen true evil before, and came across every so often in the field; but it's inversion- it's mirror- he'd only ever seen in Emma and the man sitting across from him.

Gideon had pain written onto his skin that no amount of external neglect can cover up. But there was always something else about him. When they'd both served in the BSU, Rossi had hated it for the same reason he fostered it; the same reason he suspected Morgan kept Reid so close- he'd recognized something rarer then evil and wanted to keep it untouched.

Of course, Rossi had failed. He'd underestimated Gideon; most people did. There was something else about Jason, something deeper than his eyes, something like Emma people clutched at, protected without knowing why, and something they'd never understand. It was that _unassuming_ way about them. They held a strength and patience that cut like rivers through deserts, carving canyons in time. He had a way about him, a way people didn't really notice until they needed it from him and he- unobtrusively and with great care- slid pass defenses and castle walls and never ever misused what he found there.

It had burned him through a dozen different times: from Sarah to Boston and he had never once calloused over. Maybe he had tried.

Maybe he was trying still. In another way, without the badge and gun.

"I brought you Scotch." Gideon said quietly. His voice was distant and airy. Rossi wondered how long he'd been driving to arrive there, and what he had interrupted. "Do you want to talk?"

"No."

"Alright." It was as welcoming as he'd receive, and Rossi took it willingly, closing his eyes and uncoiling in the seat as Gideon opened the first bottle of the night.


End file.
